


Hēbē

by illuminate



Series: cupbearer [1]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Canon Era, M/M, vampire!Enjolras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-13
Updated: 2013-08-13
Packaged: 2017-12-23 08:54:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/924378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illuminate/pseuds/illuminate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You cannot feed on a citizen without their consent, because that would be an attack on their person - and their Rights, I am sure. But you cannot risk revealing your nature and so you cannot ask for permission. Luckily, you have me, who am already aware and quite willing.”</p>
<p>The chair screeches loudly as Enjolras pushes himself away from the table.</p>
<p>”Come now, Apollo, let me be your cupbearer.” Grantaire implores; his tone somewhere between teasing and honest.</p>
<p>“No, we are not doing that.” Enjolras growls.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>(In short: Enjolras has trouble feeding himself, because he is too busy planning the revolution. Grantaire finds out and is more than willing to help.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hēbē

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a kink meme prompt that I cannot find again, and from which I don't remember any specifics beyond vampire!Enjolras.  
> Mainly movieverse, but mixed with some Brick.

Enjolras has miscalculated. The headache that has been plaguing him for days now has grown to a blinding pain, a constant pounding just behind his eyes that echoes the heartbeat of the humans in the building and the surrounding streets. He is sweating for the first time since the change. His insides are burning. He is Hungry.

He has retreated to the empty backroom of the Musain. The room is soaked with the smells of humans – everything in the city is, every building and street, even the parks are marked with their presence – but in here at least, it is the scent of his friends. His love for them is a help now. Very soon those bonds will not be enough to hold him anymore.

He thought that he would have more time, that the rats he could catch in the city would be enough to maintain his self-control for a while. But he had postponed too long and now the hunger is too great for him to leave the city, to travel through that swirling mass of people.

The hunger burns and Enjolras is already struggling to form coherent thoughts, to focus on anything but the relentless pounding of blood outside. He is so overwhelmed by them – the multitudes of them, such a short distance away – that he does not notice one heartbeat moving closer.

The scent assaults Enjolras before anything else and he digs his hands into the plaster of the walls to keep himself still. Then there is the sound of footsteps, the creaking of the stairs, soft-mumbled words and a steady heartbeat drawing nearer with every step. Enjolras is frozen, incapable of flight without fight, which would only yield disastrous results. And then he is not alone anymore.

“Grantaire” Enjolras says hoarsely, a warning he cannot expand upon. He has stopped breathing and has no more air for talking, but even then the warm scent still envelops him.

Enjolras opens his eyes and manages to focus after blinking twice. Grantaire is staring at him in surprise, that damnable bottle in hand. Worst of all; his clothes are rumpled from sleep and his cravat is undone, revealing the pale column of his neck where his beating pulse is painfully visible to Enjolras.

“Oh.” Grantaire says as understanding blooms on his face, “This explains a lot.” 

Grantaire carefully places the bottle on the nearest table and takes a step towards Enjolras.

Enjolras inhales to speak, to warn Grantaire, but the small mouthful of Grantaire-saturated air is enough to break his shaky control. The next he knows, he is pressing Grantaire up against the wall and sinking his teeth into his neck. 

At first there is only the warm blood running down his throat and the relief of the burning being quenched. After several blissful seconds the bitter taste of alcohol manifests as well. It takes a few mouthfuls more before Enjolras is able to recognize the smaller nuances that makes the taste uniquely Grantaire.

Enjolras tightens his grip momentarily when Grantaire moves his hand against Enjolras’s chest, but relaxes again when Grantaire only curls his fingers into the folds of Enjolras’ jacket. His few previous victims had all struggled, squirming and pushing against him until they were weakened by the blood loss. There is no resistance in Grantaire, he is soft and pliant beneath him. 

Enjolras hums lightly in approval as the Hunger is slowly replaced by the haze of fullness. He grabs a handful of curls and pulls to change the angle slightly. Grantaire complies with a soft whimper. The sound stirs a thought through the bloodhaze. Enjolras has never been able to keep track of how much he drinks, the feeding is too consuming for that. He usually knows that he has taken too much when they stop fighting him, but Grantaire does not struggle at all.

Enjolras releases Grantaire as if burned and stumbles back. His breath is ragged as he watches Grantaire sag against the wall. Grantaire slowly slides down until he is sitting on the floor. He starts patting his own pockets with unsteady hands while smiling shakily at Enjolras.

“Feel better?” Grantaire asks and presses a grubby handkerchief against the still bleeding bite.

Enjolras turns and flees. The sound of Grantaire’s persistent heart is both a relief and a temptation as it follows him down the stairs and out of the building.

 

***

 

Human blood lasts longer than any of the replacements Enjolras has found. It still seems too soon when the Hunger starts gnawing at him again. He does not have time for this! There is too much to be done for him to leave Paris for any period of time. Enjolras postpones, and when the headache appears again he knows he is running out of time once more. He has to act soon; he cannot risk a repeat of the last time.

“You look grouchy today.” Grantaire says, while he moves a pile of books and papers from a chair and takes a seat at Enjolras’ table. This is the first time Grantaire has sought Enjolras out since….since Enjolras’ last miscalculation. It is something of a relief when his Hunger does not flare up at Grantaire’s sudden presence. He had been afraid that his instincts would see Grantaire as prey, but it appears that he is still protected like the rest of the Amis. 

“I have a headache” Enjolras says and looks somewhat desperately after the backs of their retreating friends. They are leaving to continue their drinking elsewhere; usually Grantaire would be going with them. 

Enjolras returns to the letter he was writing, in the hope that Grantaire will take the hint and leave with the others. Grantaire merely watches him in silence until the Amis has all left the building and they can no longer hear Jehan and Courfeyrac’s drunken singing.

“Yes, you have been looking less radiant lately.” Grantaire finally says “Is your Patria such a cruel mistress then, Enjolras, that she does not allow you to rest when you are ill? That you cannot leave your work to take care of the weakness of your flesh?”

“Grantaire” Enjolras interrupts. “Please drop it.” He is slightly annoyed at Grantaire’s timing. He has been dreading this subject for weeks now, and Grantaire has somehow chosen the same day as his headache to reappear.

“No” Grantaire says “I will not. You admit to being ill, I cannot ignore that.” He smiles with a satisfied gleam in his eyes “And I do think I have earned the right to ask you about this.”

Enjolras sighs. “Yes.” he admits, as he puts the letter aside and closes the inkbottle. Then he closes his eyes and rests his forehead atop his folded hands on the table. The new position lessens the pain behind his eyes slightly. “You do.”

“For the sake of your headache I will get to the point then.” Grantaire says. “I assume you have been more than human for as long as I have known you, and in that time you have never had this problem before. You used to take trips out of the city every so often. They only lasted two days and you always travelled alone.” Grantaire reaches over and extinguishes the candle which Enjolras had been writing by. Enjolras sighs when the lowered lighting soothes the headache a little. “But you are no longer able to do that, because you are all too busy planning your doomed revolution. You more than anyone.” 

The chair creaks as Grantaire leans forward. His voice drops and he continues in an utterly filthy tone “Do you have some beautiful virgins tucked away on your estate? Ready and willing to satisfy your needs?” 

Grantaire is deliberately goading him, he can tell. Enjolras does not take the bait for once.

“I have a forest. I have the wild animals” Enjolras says and looks up at him “I hunt. I satisfy my needs with the largest animal I find, and then I come back.”

“That works?” Grantaire asks surprised.

“It does not last as long as…the genuine article, but it works.” It is not nearly as satisfying either, But whether he enjoys the feeding or not is irrelevant.

“And you cannot find large animals in the city?” Grantaire asks, rolling his bottle between his hands.

“Domesticated animals does not work very well.” Enjolras answers. He stares entranced at the bottle moving back and forth. “The effect is much shorter than wild animals and it catches too much attention when they go missing.”

Grantaire stills the bottle and studies him. A worrying smile grows on Grantaire’s face.

“I am wild.”

“No.” Enjolras growls.

“Yes.” Grantaire says. “If you do not feed, you will go mad with Hunger, which would result in a literal bloodbath. You have to feed, and if you cannot go to your animals, it will have to be a human.” 

“No.” Enjolras repeats more loudly. There is a vicious look in Grantaire’s eyes as he ignores him.

“You cannot feed on a citizen without their consent, because that would be an attack on their person - and their Rights, I am sure. But you cannot risk revealing your nature and so you cannot ask for permission. Luckily, you have me, who am already aware and quite willing.”

The chair screeches loudly as Enjolras pushes himself away from the table.

”Come now, Apollo, let me be your cupbearer.” Grantaire implores; his tone somewhere between teasing and honest.

“No, we are not doing that.” Enjolras growls.

Grantaire shrugs. He picks up a knife Bahorel had used to cut some cheese. Enjolras belatedly realizes what Grantaire is doing and throws himself across the table to grab Grantaire’s wrist. The knife-edge is stopped only a few hairbreadths from the palm of Grantaire’s hand.

“Are you mad!?” Enjolras pulls the knife from Grantaire’s hand and throws it away. It hits the floor with a clatter.

“What will you do when Bossuet accidentally cuts himself?” Grantaire retorts “The next time Bahorel gets hurt in a fight? Or when Joly decides he needs a bloodletting? How good is your control going to be then? You do not really have an option here.”

Enjolras growls in frustration. He can feel Grantaire’s pulse beating beneath the skin of the wrist he is still holding. For a moment the Hunger flares up, and Enjolras catches himself leaning forward. Grantaire looks disappointed when Enjolras stops himself and belatedly releases his wrist.

“Why would you want this?” Enjolras asks.

“I want to be useful to you, it is an ambition of mine.” There is something almost scary in the calm honesty with which Grantaire answers. Enjolras feels the last of his resolve falter beneath it.

“Grantaire, I detest myself for this weakness. I will not be grateful to you for helping me, no matter how much I might need it.” 

Grantaire simply smiles in relief and takes a step closer “Should I go to the wall again or is this fine?”

Enjolras steps backwards in surprise, both at his words and the heat his sudden proximity had brought. “You want to do it now?”

“Why wait? You are hungry now.” Grantaire says. He reaches for his cravat, but Enjolras grabs his wrist once more to stop him.

“No.” Enjolras says. He pauses and exhales slowly to ignore the feel of Grantaire’s pulse against his palm. “Sit down and pull up your sleeve.”

Grantaire complies and then looks up at him with impatience when Enjolras hesitates.

“Come now, Apollo, “ He repeats, “I will think of France, and it will barely hurt.”

Enjolras is too uneasy to comment, but does finally sit down in front of Grantaire and gingerly picks up his arm. He pauses to look at Grantaire, but when there clearly are no protests forthcoming, he finally bites down.

The first mouthful is as heavenly as he remembers. There is the blissful sensation of blood running down his throat, followed by the slight burn of alcohol in the blood and then the Grantaire taste. Several swallows later he realizes that he is humming in delight, but in the bloodhaze he does not care nearly enough to stop.

He thinks he feels a hand brush his curls lightly, but it moves away again before he can be sure.

 

***

 

It is a few hours before sunrise when Enjolras goes looking for Grantaire. He finds him inside the Musain, sitting in a corner surrounded by bottles. Some of them are still unopened, but many more than Enjolras would like lies empty.

“This is not all mine.” Grantaire says, as if he has read Enjolras’ thoughts. ”Some of them were a group effort. I have been fetching bottles all night, since Joly apparently trusts my judgment in wine above everybody else’s.”

“But some of them are just yours.” Enjolras says. “If you drink any more I will give your gun to Gavroche, rather than have you wasting bullets.”

Grantaire nods slowly and rolls a bottle between his hands.

“That is not a bad idea.” Grantaire replies hoarsely. “I do not think I will be of much more use to this barricade.”

He is trembling slightly and there is something terrible and haunting in Grantaire’s eyes when he looks up at Enjolras. It makes his insides clench up to see it. Enjolras does not doubt that there is something similar on his own face.

“You did very well, with Eponine.” Grantaire says. “I was looking for it, but I barely noticed anything. And there was all that blood…” His voice breaks off and he takes a drink from the bottle. “You did very well. I was impressed.”

“I just focused on Marius. It was surprisingly easy.”

Grantaire nods again. “You are a good leader, dear Apollo. It is a shame we will all be killed before the rest of the world has the chance to see it as well.” He lifts his bottle to take another drink, but is stopped by Enjolras this time.

“Don’t drink anymore, and get some sleep.” Enjolras requests as he crouches down to Grantaire’s level – requests, because he has no illusions that Grantaire will simply follow orders, even when they come from him.

Granaire does not answer, but he lets Enjolras take the bottle and put it aside without complaint. Possibly because there are still several replacements in his reach.

“I suppose it is a relief that you will not go crazed from all the blood when they start shooting us again.”

Enjolras reaches forward and rests his hand on the side of Grantaire’s neck where his pulse is steadily beating

“I would not have come if I did not think I could handle the blood.” Enjolras says.

“Yes, you would.” Grantaire interrupts, but his tone is fond. “You could not have stayed away. You would just have pointed yourself at the National Guard and hoped for the best.”

“Still,” Enjolras continues, ignoring the comment. “I would like to make sure.”

Grantaire stares at him “Oh,” he says. “This is nice. You coming to me and not the other way around.” His smile almost reaches his eyes. “I suppose I can still be of some use to the barricade then.”

Enjolras brushes his thumb lightly across Grantaire’s pulse.

“Only if you are willing.” Enjolras says.

Grantaire laughs lightly in response and leans into his hand.

“I am always willing, Enjolras.”

 

***

 

When Enjolras awakens the National Guard is gone.

There is no pain, but his head feels foggy, everything seems muted and out of focus. It might be a bad sign that his injuries are apparently beyond physical pain, but he is nonetheless grateful for the respite when he looks down and counts eight bullet holes. 

A bullet wound would not kill him, he knew. Several bullet holes would, however, kill him just as well as anyone else. Give him enough injuries at once and it would be beyond even his exhilarated healing to recover from. He had been certain he was going to die, but eight bullets do not seem to have been enough in this case. He does not doubt that nine would have been.

Enjolras unlocks his knees and manages to control his descend a little when his legs crumble beneath him. He lands in a pool of blood. Grantaire’s and his own. Or maybe all of it is Grantaire’s, he muses dazed. It is bleeding out of his wounds now, but originally it had been running from Grantaire’s neck and down Enjolras’ throat. He might still have a claim to it in some way, even if it has been assimilated within Enjolras’ body since he gave it away.

Grantaire lies in front of him on the floor, so close that Enjolras fears he might have kicked him when his legs gave out. Enjolras reaches out a shaky hand and curls his fingers around Grantaire’s wrist. He is still warm, but it takes several endless seconds and Enjolras moving his hand to Grantaire’s neck before he finds a pulse. It is weak, barely noticeable if Enjolras was not so familiar with its beating. It might just be a trick of his mind and his trembling hands, but that thought is not worth holding on to. He counts four bullet holes.

_“Long live the Republic!”_ Grantaire had said.

There had been twelve guns. Nine would have been enough – less than eight would have been enough if they had hit him differently.

Before Enjolras jumped him that first time, Grantaire had recognized what he was. He had known what he needed, what his headache meant, had already known all the specifics of Enjolras condition.

_“Finish both of us at one blow”_ Grantaire had said.

Enjolras looks down at his wounds. Most of them are still bleeding sluggishly, but he does not have the strength to angle himself over Grantaire or to lift him to his chest. Enjolras bites his own wrist instead, and holds it over Grantaire’s mouth so the blood falls between his lips.

He doubts if this will work when Grantaire has been so badly injured, when his pulse might already be silent. He does not think that he can afford to lose more blood; his ears are ringing and black is creeping into the edge of his vision. But this way they have an almost equal chance of survival, and that suddenly seems more important than anything. 

He brushes Grantaire’s curls lightly with his free hand, but has to drop his arm down again when it feels unbearably heavy. They are fine for now. Grantaire is still warm. He is still conscious. For now that will be more than enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Hēbē was the original cupbearer for the Gods in Greek mythology.  
> (I hate naming stuff and - more importantly- if it is possible, you should always work something Classical into the title of your Les Mis fic)


End file.
